


Shadow of the Old

by Emjayelle



Series: Summer Pornathon 2013 (expanded) [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Coda, Episode Tag, F/F, Reunion, s5e02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emjayelle/pseuds/Emjayelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Kara sees her first. Their eyes lock over the flames, and Sefa stills for a moment. She wants to cry, but all she can manage is a high whimper. She’s emptied her body of all the tears she could shed, leaving a salty trail in the dirt between her father’s dead body and her own, until she was as dry as a field in a drought.</i><br/> </p><p>Or; what happened to Sefa after the end of 5.02 (<i>Arthur's Bane, Part II</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow of the Old

**Author's Note:**

> written for challenge 5 of the summer pornathon (canon)  
> Reworked and expanded from its original 750 words length.
> 
> title from First Aid Kit's "Our Own Pretty Ways"
> 
>  **content** : There is a brief memory that could be read as Gwen/Sefa. It's vague enough to go either way.

She lets out a dry sob when she sees the campfire through the trees, relief flooding her veins and lungs so fast she has to steady herself with a hand on a tree. Comforting voices drift on the wind, mixing with the smells of cooked meat and herbs, the familiarity of it like an ache in her chest that pulls too tight at her skin. Her fingers curl against the bark of the tree, rough and steady under her hand. 

Kara sees her first. Their eyes lock over the flames, and Sefa stills for a moment. She wants to cry, but all she can manage is a high whimper. She’s emptied her body of all the tears she could shed, leaving a salty trail in the dirt between her father’s dead body and her own, until she was as dry as a field in a drought.

Kara says “Sefa!” in a voice that jars her out of her ache, into the sudden realization of safety, and Sefa lets herself fall into Kara’s opened arms, burying her face in her neck where she smells like earth, herbal soap, and smoke. It’s so dizzying, so old and beloved, she almost licks at Kara’s skin, biting into her lip instead, and twisting her fingers in her dress. Kara’s hand is on the back of her head, keeping her close, like she knows, and Sefa muffles another dry cry against her. 

She’s vaguely aware of Kara telling the other Druids that everything’s fine (no it isn’t) that she’ll take care of it (like she always has), guiding Sefa toward the river. 

Only when they’re in the shadows of the big oak tree they used to climb as children, with the moon as their light, does Kara let go of Sefa’s arm and holds her face between her hands, peppering it with kisses, pushing on Sefa’s skin as if to make sure she’s really there, not even trying to hide the trembling of her fingers on her cheeks.

Sefa breathes out slowly. She holds Kara’s wrists in a light grip, pushing back against her palms. 

Kara’s warmth seeps into her while she takes Sefa’s dress off slowly, the fabric stiff and heavy with dry mud and dirt from when she had to crawl in a swamp, and under uprooted trees to hide from Camelot’s knights. She doesn’t even shiver in the night air, can barely feel it on her skin even though the wind makes the leaves rustle around them, focusing instead on the smoothness of the wet rocks under her bare feet and the way her toes curl to grip at them. 

The river’s cool on her skin. She sits down on the rocky bottom, submerged to the neck, letting the water flow over her to wash away the grit that seems to cling to her like it belongs, like dirty is her new state of being.

Kara’s hands are strong on Sefa’s scalp when she leans back, soaking her hair, tender on the muscles of her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone and breasts. Sefa finds Kara’s naked thigh under the water, and she pushes with her fingertips on the inside, where it’s soft, where she remembers biting once, long ago, and the lovely, happy sound Kara had made at that moment, clenching hard on Sefa’s fingers moving in and out of her body. Sefa pretends she can still feel the teeth marks there. 

Kara hums low in her throat, her fingers tangling into Sefa’s hair

Late one night, several months ago, after Sefa had helped the Queen with her bath. She had wrapped her in her bathrobe and brushed her hair, twisting hers into a dirty bun over her neck so it wouldn’t fall over her eyes. The candles were low and the Queen’s hair smelled like lavender. Sefa had taken her time with it, plaiting it carefully for the night. When she was done, the Queen had offered her the still warm water of her bath to wash her own hair.

Sefa had protested, but the Queen had taken her hand, told her to stop fussing with a gentle smile, and had even helped Sefa, like she was just a common servant herself. She had tangled her fingers into Sefa’s hair, too. 

That night, she had cried for a long time, unable to chase the scent of lavender away from her pillow.

She digs her fingernails into Kara’s thigh, but Kara doesn’t even flinch. She just helps Sefa to her feet, a solid body behind her while she sways on her feet, relishing the shiver that starts in her feet, up her spine, to the root of her hair, and the violent clenching of her muscles. 

They get out of the water, Sefa’s legs almost buckling under her and she lies down on the grass, Kara following her. She’s grateful for that, for not having to ask. Kara’s touch is fast and sure over Sefa’s ribs, her mouth wet on her shoulder.

Sefa closes her eyes, focuses on this: the way Kara’s fingers are familiar, how they know Sefa’s body by heart, and the soft-hard feeling of her breasts and nipples against hers. She wraps her legs around Kara’s waist, trying to get her closer, into her skin, into that place inside her chest where things are bright, golden, and unbroken, like they used to be.

She’s haunted. 

The first time she saw them—the ghosts—it was a bright, summer afternoon. It hadn’t rained in a week and the ground was crackling and hard under her feet, even by the river. She’d spent an hour skipping stones on the water with Kara, making a contest out of it. Kara was letting her win. It had been her idea after finding Sefa crying under their oak tree because her father had tried to show her a simple spell, but Sefa has failed again and again at it, until she couldn’t stand the disappointment in her father’s eyes and had run away. She’d asked Kara why magic didn’t love her and Kara had just shrugged, saying she didn’t know, but that she loved Sefa and wasn’t that enough? 

They’d been called back to camp, and there had been a boy there, all black hair and wide blue eyes, sitting calmly on a log with a bowl of stew held limply between his hands. Kara had been quick, as she usually was, and took the boy’s hand, asked him his name and dragged him to the river with them.

Mordred said Uther Pendragon killed his father, but that his son had saved him. Kara’s eyes hardened and her fists had clenched. Mordred just looked calm and unaffected, but Sefa could see his loss etched all over him.

It was the same ghosts she saw in her own people over and over as the years went by. It made Kara angry. It made her father angry. It only made Sefa sad. 

Then there was Camelot and the chance to make her father proud, to smooth the fury in Kara’s eyes, the indifference in Mordred’s. But she saw the same loss, the same ghosts in the Queen’s eyes too. She saw it in the cook’s eyes, and Sir Percival’s, and Holly’s, the small kitchen maid who showed Sefa how to press the Queen’s dresses. And Merlin’s. Even the King’s. 

The sight of them, in his wide blue eyes as he turned around to give Merlin a weirdly unrestrained grin, took the air out of her lungs and made her remember what Mordred had said by the river so long ago. Something tightened in Sefa’s chest that day. She had swayed on her feet and Merlin’s hand had closed on her elbow. He asked her softly if she was alright, and Sefa could only nod, could only look at her shoes because everywhere she looked she saw the same hurt.

Haunted little houses, all of them.

“We heard about your father,” Kara says against Sefa’s ear, her hand hot and heavy between Sefa’s thigh. She pushes two fingers inside her while her thumb rubs steady circles on Sefa’s clit, making her moan, making her mind stop for a moment, and yes yes, just like that. Let this last long enough so she can catch her breath, so her skin doesn’t unravel at the seams. “They’ll pay. I swear to all the Gods, Camelot and the Pendragons will pay.”

Her words burn Sefa’s skin. She chokes on _yes_ and _no_ tight inside her throat. 

She buries her hand into Kara’s hair and Kara nips and licks feverishly at her jaw, pumping her fingers in and out of her at an increasing pace. She’s pushing hard on Sefa’s body, her hands rougher than they were before—more urgent. She drags her nails across Sefa’s ribs, pushes a third finger inside of her, easily, the wet sound of it barely audible over the hot panting in her ear, the jagged edges of the scream stuck in her chest.

“I’ll kill them all. I’ll—I’ll make them pay for what they did. I swear. I’ll kill them. I’ll—”

Sefa doesn’t really listen, just pushes back with her hips, pushes back with her whole body, wanting the bruises of Kara’s hands, the sweat between their bodies to seep into her skin, wash everything away better than any river water could. 

But she can’t stop thinking about the ghosts and how they’re all over her, inside of her, of everyone. She opens her eyes and there’s Merlin’s smile, there’s the Queen’s gentle hand on hers, and in her hair. There’s the sound of rocks skipping on water, and the heat of a blush on her cheeks after one of Sir Gwaine’s teases. There’s her family, and there’s Camelot. There’s the smell of old wet ruins as her father lay dying and her father’s last words. 

She loses herself in all of it as it crashes over her—nothing makes sense anymore, and she doesn’t know where or how to stand and look and _breathe_. 

She comes hard and unexpectedly, staring at the dark space between the stars.

*** *** ***

The first time, it was another hot, dry summer afternoon, and the grass under the oak tree had prickled Sefa’s back, and later her knees. Everything was bright, even the shade.

Sefa had taken the time to lick into Kara with slow, strong strokes of her tongue, holding her hips in her hands. She listened to Kara’s whimpers, grinning a little as she gripped Sefa’s hair, pushing her face closer still, and closing her thighs around her as she convulsed and bit back a yell, all wet and salty on Sefa’s lips.

She would never forget how Kara had looked then, as Sefa crawled up over her body to share Kara’s taste with her, nipping at her lips. Her hair was a mess, sweaty over her forehead, and her eyes wide and happy. Sefa had spread her fingers between Kara’s breasts, looking at the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing slowed down.

“You’re lovely,” Kara said, blinking against the sleep and exhaustion that was pulling at her. “You’re lovely and I love you.”

Sefa had smiled down at her, kissed her forehead, and sat in the river for a long time while Kara slept.

*** *** ***

She opens her eyes to see Kara smiling softly at her. Morning light and shadows shift across her skin through the leaves of the tree.

“I’m leaving,” Sefa whispers, not aware of the need until she voiced it out loud, and the clarity of it is staggering.

Kara frowns, sits up, and crosses her arms over her knees. Sefa turns on her back, looking up at the sky between the leaves. It’s quiet. 

This is the last time she’ll lie under this tree— _their_ tree. It’s the last time she’ll look at this particular patch of sky, or look at the way the river bends gently around the rocks on which she has sat so many times in the past. This is the last time she’ll see Kara. The conviction of it is a solid weight inside of her.

She swallows, throat dry. It feels like she should explain, like she should say something that will make Kara forgive her. 

“When my father—when he—when my father came to save me, in Camelot,” she says. “We got surrounded and Sir Elyan, the Queen’s brother, wounded him.” She takes a deep breath, the shouts and the panic of that night still so close, too easy to recall. “He died from that wound.” 

Sefa sits up and leans against the trunk of the tree, the bark rough and abrasive on her naked back.

“Don’t worry,” Kara says, soft but fierce, without looking at her. The muscles in her shoulders tenses. “One day he’ll pay for that too.”

Sefa shakes her head even though Kara can’t see her, eyes fixed on the leaves above. “Three months ago,” she says, “I was coming back from Nellie’s house. I had left her a message for my father, something about the King’s forces stationed on the Eastern borders. I—I was trying to make it back to my quarters without being seen, but I crossed Sir Elyan’s path. I didn’t know he was on patrol. It was supposed to be Sir Kay, and I knew Sir Kay was having a fling with a girl who worked in the castle so I figured he’d be too busy. But apparently he had come down with a severe case of the flu and Sir Elyan had taken his place. 

“He—He just asked me if I was alright, because it was late at night and I wasn’t supposed to be awake. I made up a story, I don’t even remember what now, but he believed me. He smiled and offered me to take me back to my quarters.”

Kara snorts.

“It wasn’t like that,” Sefa says. “He walked with me and asked me how I liked Camelot. He thanked me for taking such good care of his sister. He even called her that, not the Queen, just his sister—Gwen—and he just looked so _proud_. He had no idea I had just delivered a message that could potentially help bring ruin and death to his sister, or him, or all of his friends. He just made sure I made it to my quarters safely, told me to tell Sir Gwaine off next time he teased me, like he knew I wanted to, but didn’t out of propriety, and said goodnight.”

Kara put her hand around Sefa’s ankle and squeezes a little.

“And yet,” she says looking over her shoulder, her hair still a bit wet and falling in her eyes, frizzy from having slept on the ground without brushing them. “And yet, he killed your father.”

Sefa looks at her for a moment, shakes her head again, and whispers “he did,” before closing her eyes against the thought.

Kara shifts beside her and nudges Sefa’s legs open so she can kneel in front of her. Sefa looks at her through half-opened eyes. The shadows and angles of her are softer when looked at like this, the blue sky and the river sparkling almost give her a fuzzy crown of gold. Her messy hair is all wild and tangled and beautiful and it makes her look so much younger, like the girl who skipped stones on the river with her, the one who lay down naked with her dozens of times under this very tree and only had loving words to whisper into Sefa’s ear.

Kara takes Sefa’s face between her hands, and Sefa opens her eyes completely, shattering the softness, even though it still lingers there on the edges like it doesn’t quite want to let go.

“Everything you’ve done for your father, for _us_ , will not be in vain. I promise,” she says, serious and earnest and Sefa wants to cry.

“I’m leaving,” she repeats instead.

Kara must see something in her eyes, on her face, or maybe in the way Sefa’s not touching her, not leaning into her like she usually does, because she falls back, hurt and betrayal all over her face.

“You’re leaving me,” she says, not a question. “Like Mordred.”

“Mordred didn’t leave you. He’ll be back, he promised.”

“Will you promise too?”

Sefa digs her nails into the ground, trying not to reach for Kara, for the tiny edge of hope and childlike fear in her voice.

“No.”

Kara nods slowly, pinching her lips. “I love him,” she says.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Is it so bad? Is it why you’re leaving?”

“No.”

Kara stands and walks to the water, walks until the water is up to her waist, and looks at the woods on the other bank. Sefa follows her until she’s in arms reach, and waits. The water’s as cool as it was last night, colder even on her sun-warm skin.

“I don’t understand,” Kara says turning to her, jaw clenched and eyes hard.

Sefa pinches her lips, willing the softness back, the smooth edges of Kara’s self, but it isn’t there for her to grasp. Not anymore. 

“Help me look like a boy,” she says, instead.

They cut Sefa’s hair. They cut it so short no one will ever be able to tangle their fingers in it. They dress her in breeches and bind her breasts, and Sefa puts a dagger at her waist. Kara packs a bag for her, full of clothes and food, because Sefa refuses to go back to camp.

She doesn’t want to be a part of it. Any of it. She played the game already, and she lost. She could stay, could try and tell them all the things she saw and learned in Camelot. All the pain and joy and life that fills it. That they haven’t seen all the good magic can do, especially the King, because it’s been only used in violent, brutal ways against him and his kingdom, but that he isn’t unfair or cruel. 

She could walk through the gates of Camelot and tell the King that the only reason he has never seen the good magic can do is because his laws against it only foster anger and hatred and rebellion. That too many people have suffered from it, even when he was just a prince and had no control over any of it. That goodwill and trust need to be shown.

Maybe some of the Druids would listen to her. She could tell them of the gentleness she saw in Camelot, and the hundreds of people who are just like them, just trying to live their lives and be good and happy. What would become of them if Morgana Pendragon took Camelot? 

But she also almost died at their hands and her father actually did, and that’s a hole inside of her that is black and hurt and bleeding.

Kara narrows her eyes at her, her body tense with anger.

“You’re a coward,” she says fiercely. There are tears in her eyes.

Sefa grabs Kara’s wrist as she turns to go and pulls her back in, and for once— _for once_ —Kara follows. Sefa leans in and brushes her lips against hers.

“Be careful,” she says softly in the hot wetness between them. “I love you, too.”

With that, she takes herself out of the game, doesn’t look back, and walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any mistakes and/or typos, or have issues with anything in my fics, please free to contact me on [tumblr](http://emjayelle.tumblr.com) (anonymous option is on) or on [livejournal](http://emjayelle.livejournal.com). Thank you.


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